Rex's Typical Morning
by nedthejanitor
Summary: A nonsensical story about Rex's hatred for his owner's hand, and what said hand has to do in order to control Rex.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Victorious, and after you read this story, you are going to be damn glad that I never will.**

()()()

The telltale signs of Robbie's awakening- snorts, grunts, sniffles, probably crying because he had a dream where people respected him and it was just torn from him- made Rex freeze. Well, that is, he stayed in the same slumped over position at the foot of the bed that he always had.

Though the puppet could not move, his mind was going a thousand miles an hour. There was no debate, this was the worst part of the day. Why, oh why, did Robbie have to take him absolutely everywhere? For that matter, what cruel God decided that he must have sentience, while all the others at the store Robbie went to all those years ago were lifeless and unfeeling? With all of the time in the world at night, Rex still could not answer these questions, and as time drug on in it's inimitable fashion, a war had waged in his mind between frustration and apathy with regards to the aforementioned queries.

Speaking of queries, Robbie began to shift back and forth in bed. That meant potentially several things, chief among them in Rex's mind being the chance that the boy was going back to sleep. He knew better- Robbie almost never skipped school and daylight was leaking into the bedroom. So what if he had hope? He had the right to something, surely! And he would continue to hold onto it until it became clear that the time had come.

Speaking of come- yeah, I'm using the same style of joke twice in a row, wanna fight about it?- one of the more horrifying possibilities is that Robbie was about to start searching for the lotion in his bedside table drawer. Such an innocuous white bottle, and yet so capable of bring such horrors to one's auditory senses, as Robbie lubed up his teenage genitals and just went to work on himself like Macbeth trying to scrub out a damned stain. Oh, if only Robbie were trying to get rid of a stain instead of creating one in his sock! The silver lining; thank God, if this was about to happen, Rex was facing away from it. One time he had the terrible misfortune of Robbie being in his sights when the boy was randy.

There is no more surefire way to feel like a pedophile than to watch someone like Robbie masturbate, save for, say, actually having sex with a small child. Of course, Rex knew it was impossible to help. It's not like he had control over his eyelids unless Robbie's hand was in him. That was the worst part except for the pain; the fact that it was a blessing as much as a curse. Rex had Robbie to thank for providing the "bones" that allowed him to move.

As the painful seconds slowly shat from entropy's asshole, relief was starting to fade into the fear, diluting it. Robbie remained still long enough that it was less and less likely he was going to do the dreaded. Rex took the time he'd been blessed with to start counting the small tufts of woven softness in the carpet. He'd managed to get to almost three hundred one morning before the horror began. If he could even concentrate on the task long enough before succumbing to anxiety, it was-

Rex's stomach dropped through the floor. The lamp next to Robbie's bed was just turned on. He wouldn't be doing that unless it was getting up time. It was time. The boy went to the bathroom. Sometimes that gave Rex ample time to mentally prepare himself. Other times, it didn't make a lick of difference. There was one morning when he heard Robbie throw up, and it was the greatest morning of his life, because for that one blessed day, Robbie was sick in bed and didn't get to school. Rex no longer marveled at how monstrous he'd become, hoping that his owner got severely ill for a prolonged period of time, because it just felt like a due that needed to be paid unto him.

A flush. Robbie was about to leave the restroom and get himself dressed for school. All Rex would hope for is that the high schooler wouldn't be in his line of vision for the process. If he was, it would feel like a demented striptease, an awful sort of foreplay before the onset of penetration. He left the restroom and settled in front of his dresser. Thankfully, just out of Rex's eyeshot. The puppet's mouth hung open constantly when he was not in use, as if shock were the default setting of his face, and after what he had seen in his years, it fit more than anything else possibly could, save for defeat.

If Rex were able to shed tears, it would be now that he did. He was picked up. "Good morning, Rex," Robbie said, in a voice devoid of any awareness whatsoever. Now rage was starting to inject through the terror. How dare he be so nonchalant about this? Could he really be that obtuse-

No thoughts now. The hand had entered. Intense pain rocketed through Rex's secret nervous system. It never failed, that every morning the puppet was convinced that this would be the moment he died. Yes, at that moment, Rex was as certain as he'd ever been of anything that he was about to die of the pain, and no amount of knowledge that this had been going on for years was enough to sate it. Robbie's fingers groped around inside the puppet's head, looking for the proper divots with which to control Rex's movements.

It felt as if Rex had insides and Robbie was tearing them apart, yet somehow, when it was his turn to talk, the words "Morning, Robbie," came out as naturally as everything else he'd ever said. Almost as though there was a different Rex controlling the speech area of the puppet's brain. Once, there was an idea in his mind that a different Rex existed, separate yet within the same body, that controlled certain aspects of him. That wasn't possible, though, was it? He concluded it wasn't- there was a separate entity alright, but it wasn't Rex himself; it was Robbie. Until the pain faded, he had control.

They went together to the breakfast table and then to school as the pain in the puppet's faux-ass began to numb. It was a dreadfully gradual process, but one that brought full relief just by the act of starting. He could look forward to a slow crawl back down to normalcy until the night where it would start all over again.

()()()

"Good night, Rex."

Robbie turned out the light. Rex resolved that this would be the night that, through sheer force of will, he would create movement and escape this living hell that had become his life. Of course, he did that every single night, and it always ended with disappointment.

There was one time Rex was in class with Robbie, as he always ended up being, and he heard in the teacher's science lecture that, in certain parts of the world, there was no daylight for weeks at a time. Robbie would have given anything, from that very moment all the way to this one, that he lived there. Night was beautiful. Painless. But no. This was his fate, and as much as he would fight, one day he would accept it. For the rest of his unnatural life, Robbie would begin the day by cramming his skinny hand right up into the puppet's backside. And even though the puppet's invisible brain would scream commands at his limp limbs to move, flail, struggle, do something, ANYTHING, they wouldn't. And he would once again be taken away to a life he didn't want to share with a kid he didn't like.

If Rex could cry, he would.


End file.
